


Round-Trip

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: Community: fandom_aid, F/M, Paris (City), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sara realizes that there might be more than one way to avoid regret. (SPOILERS up through the S4 finale for anything to do with Neal and Sara; no spoilers for anything else.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Round-Trip

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leonie_Alastair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leonie_Alastair/gifts).



> This is for Leonie Alastair for her generous Hurricane Sandy fandom_aid donation. I hope that you enjoy this! I'm sorry it took so long - I had another idea that just never quite gelled. Maybe I'll make it work someday and then you'll get _two_ fics for the price of one!
> 
> Many thanks also to Yamx for beta reading, even if this isn't _quite_ her cup of tea. ;-)
> 
> This fic contains spoilers up through 4.16 "In the Wind" for anything to do with Neal and Sara's relationship. But the nice thing about not being Jeff Eastin is that I don't have to get Peter and Neal out of their current pickle, so I've chosen to completely ignore everything else.

Sara was not one for regret. Life was too short, her grandmother had always said, and Sara had taken it to heart. When you made a decision, you didn’t look back at the road not taken. And Sara didn’t, after she took the job in London. She packed up her life in New York and left without a second thought. 

Well. _Almost_ without a second thought. She’d have had to be self-delusional to say that Neal’s proposal didn’t put a second thought in her head. But she’d never been the sort of woman to give anything up for a man, and even if she had been, that just wasn't the sort of relationship they had. _Amis amants_ , they’d agreed. And if, in another life . . . well, that didn’t mean much for this life, did it?

The days leading up to her departure were so hectic, between sending her things to London, prepping for her new job, wrapping up as many of her outstanding cases as she could, and of course, helping Neal with one last con, that she didn’t get a chance to breathe until she was on the plane. She settled back in her business class seat to wait for take-off, glass of champagne at hand, her e-reader ignored in front of her, and looked out the window. The New York skyline - including the Empire State Building - was visible across the water, and it was then that Sara felt a twinge of something unfamiliar in her belly. New York was home, or at least as close to one as she’d ever had as an adult, and she was leaving it behind. 

She looked down at her phone. She and Neal had said good-bye already, but she thought he might text her, let her know how things turned out, wish her luck one last time. _Have fun, Repo. Don’t make too many people cry._ But he didn’t. She told herself that it was better that way - he was letting her go, just like she had to let New York go. She just hadn’t thought it would be this hard.

Once she was actually in London, it was easier to forget New York. There was so much to do in her new job, and if London wasn’t home, then at least it was an interesting place to live. If she occasionally wished that she had someone with whom to visit the Tate or the Victoria and Albert, if she found herself wondering, when faced with a stolen Picasso, what Neal would have to say about it, if she found her contacts at Scotland Yard and Interpol boring in comparison to Peter and Neal - well, then she reminded herself of what her grandmother had always said. Life was too short for regret. Done was done. 

A year and a half passed in a blink. Then, one rainy morning in March, Sara found herself putting a meeting in her calendar for June 3rd. She frowned; that date meant something to her, or it had once. June 3rd, 2014. It wasn’t anything to do with work; if it had been, it’d have been in her calendar. Which meant it was something personal, which meant it - _oh._

June 3rd, 2014 was the date Neal would get his anklet off.

Well, mystery solved, Sara thought, and forgot about it for the rest of the day. It wasn’t like it had anything to do with her now; the two of them emailed occasionally, enough that she knew Neal hadn’t had any more island adventures since she’d left, but their good-bye at the top of the Empire State Building was the last time she’d seen him face to face. Neither of them had suggested they try keeping anything up long distance. Life in the clouds was fun, but the ground was where she lived. 

By evening, the rain had cleared a little, and Sara decided to walk home, rather than taking a cab. Her route took her across Leicester Square, past a dozen little tourist kiosks just closing up for the day. She paused outside one, her eye drawn by a stand of postcards. Most of them were of London attractions - the Tower, the Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace - but a handful were of other famous European sights. One of them showed the Arc de Triomphe, glowing against a dusky Parisian sky. Sara bought it. 

At home she heated up some leftover curry, poured herself a glass of wine, and sat with the postcard on the table in front of her, looking at it. There was more than one way to avoid regret, she thought. One of them was to never look back at the road not taken. But the other was to take the damn road to begin with and see where it led. 

_June 5th, 7pm_ , she finally wrote on the back of the postcard. She put enough postage on it to get it to New York and dropped it in her mailbox for pickup the next day. Even if Neal didn’t show, she was due a vacation. 

***

Three months later, at 6:55 on June 5th, Sara emerged onto the top of the Arc de Triomphe. She was out of breath and sweatier than she’d have liked, but a delayed train from London had put her in danger of not making her own rendezvous time. She quickly scanned the crowd and didn’t see Neal. Relieved, she leaned against the wall, pulled a mirror out of her purse, and tried to control some of the damage. 

At 7:00, there was still no sign of him. Sara slipped the mirror back in her purse and turned her back to the crowd, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. This close to summer solstice, the sun wasn’t anywhere near setting, and the heat of the day had warmed the stones. If he came, he came, she told herself. Otherwise, she still had a long weekend in Paris to look forward to. There were one or two - all right, three or four - work things she had to look into next week, but that would still give her plenty of time for exploring museums and outdoor art markets and eating in tiny bistros. 

All of which would be more fun with Neal, she admitted to herself, even as she tried not to get her hopes up. Peter had never mentioned Neal dating anyone, but then, he might not have. 

She had almost talked herself into believing that he wasn’t coming when someone slid their arms around her from behind. Sara controlled her immediate response, which was to reach for the mace she carried in her purse, since her baton was illegal in most of Western Europe. “That had better be you, Caffrey,” she said. 

“How’s it going, Repo?” he replied. She turned, not bothering to suppress her smile, and he kissed her. 

Sara would be lying if she said she hadn’t imagined this moment on occasion in the last three months. Neal had always been a spectacular kisser, and her life in London had left her with no time for dating of any kind. It had been almost two years since anyone had touched her like this, and her own reaction to it was a little embarrassing. Her heart pounded and her toes curled; she was almost dizzy with it, though that might have partly been relief that he had come at all. She hadn’t let herself feel just how much she was hoping he would until he was actually there. 

Eventually, Neal let her up for air. “Hello to you, too,” she said, a little breathlessly, getting a good look at him for the first time. He looked much the same; his hair a little longer, maybe, and with the occasional thread of gray at the temples. There was a new scar, just over his right eyebrow. But his eyes were the same startling blue as ever. 

He smiled. “I was glad to get your postcard.”

Sara smiled back. “I’m glad you came. Congratulations, by the way.” She nudged her foot against his ankle, bare beneath the hem of his pants. 

“Thanks,” he said. “Though if we’re honest, I think Peter deserves most of the congratulations.”

Sara laughed. “Yeah, what’s he going to do now?”

“He said he was going to take a week off from work to sleep,” Neal said. “But I actually have a consultant position with the Bureau lined up for when I get back, so not much will change, I guess.”

Sara raised an eyebrow at him. “They hired you as a consultant?”

“Part-time,” Neal said, offering her his arm. She took it, and they turned, strolling along the edge of the wall. “As needed. I have a few other things I want to try.”

“Grand larceny?” Sara teased. She slid her hand down Neal’s arm to take his hand.

Neal smiled but shook his head. “Nope. Art restoration. Security consulting. Elizabeth wants to hire me as a professional guest.”

“Neal Caffrey on the straight and narrow,” she remarked, shaking her head. “I didn’t think I’d ever see it.”

“You and me both,” he said. “But it was time. Peter’s sacrificed too much for me to go back to the life. And,” he added, turning to look at her, “there are other things I want.” Sara smiled but didn’t say anything. “How’s London?” he asked after a moment. 

“Busy,” she said. “Wet and cold.”

“Sounds like New York.”

Sara shook her head. “It’s definitely not New York. But I like it. And I love my job.”

“Does it make you happy?”

That pulled Sara up short. _Yes_ , she thought, but then found she couldn’t say it. She hadn’t thought it _hadn’t_ made her happy, if that made sense, but she supposed there was a reason she had dropped a postcard in the mail to Neal to begin with. If she’d been totally happy in her life in London, maybe that would’ve never occurred to her at all. She’d wanted a vacation in the clouds . . . and maybe, she admitted to herself, to see if the clouds and the ground could come just a little bit closer together. 

Neal squeezed her hand. “That wasn’t supposed to be a trick question.” 

Sara sighed. “I don’t know,” she said honestly.

Neal nodded. He glanced around at the crowd of tourists, seemed to consider his options, then looked back at her. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

“I could eat.” She was starving, actually, having not eaten anything except a terrible sandwich at Waterloo during her delay that afternoon. “And I bet you know just the place, too.”

Neal smiled. “ _Bien sûr_.”

It was one of the tiny bistros Sara had dreamed about, several blocks off the Champs-Élysées. Neal spoke French with the waiter, too quickly for her to really follow, and then the owner came out. To her surprise, he called Neal _Monsieur Caffrey_ , not _Monsieur Holden_ or any of Neal’s other aliases, and looked delighted to see him. He kissed Sara on both cheeks and told them that the meal was on the house. “Sit, sit,” he added, in heavily accented English, taking away the menus the waiter had given them. “No ordering. I will bring you the best.”

“We might’ve worked a job together, once upon a time,” Neal said, looking faintly embarrassed, after the owner had retreated back to the kitchen. “Before Antoine met his wife. I made sure none of the fallout splashed onto him.”

Sara shook her head at him. “I suppose Europe is just full of all your old business partners.”

Neal grimaced. “Yes. I only wish most of them owned Parisian bistros and offered me meals on the house.”

“Do I have to worry about you getting arrested for old crimes?” she asked.

“Old _alleged_ crimes,” Neal corrected. “And no. The statute of limitations is up on everything I might have - _allegedly_ \- once done over here. But Peter’s boss had to do some fancy footwork to get Interpol to let me back in.”

Sara raised an eyebrow. “Should I smile for our nice Interpol photographer, then?”

“I’m sure,” Neal said, with a glance out the window. “But they won’t bother us.”

Sara smiled at him. “Good.”

Their waiter brought their wine - champagne, actually - and poured it for them. Sara raised her glass. “To life without a leash,” she said, smiling. 

“I’ll drink to that,” Neal said, tapping his glass against hers. 

They talked of small, inconsequential things as the waiter brought them a succession of dishes: a delicate basil-salmon terrine to begin, then a creamy, smooth seafood bisque, accompanied by a baguette that steamed when Neal broke it; for the main course, _steak frites_ and _coq au vin_ , both of them so tender that they nearly melted on Sara’s tongue; and for dessert there was the most sinfully rich _mousse au chocolate_ Sara had ever tasted.

“I can’t eat anymore,” Sara said at last, putting down her spoon. Fortunately, Antoine had brought the chocolate mousse to share. “This was incredible, Neal, thank you.”

“Thank you for the postcard,” he replied seriously, reaching across the table to take her hand. “I meant it, Sara. I was glad to hear from you.”

“And I’m glad you came.” A swell of sudden emotion made her throat tighten. She swallowed, looking down at their hands, fingers intertwined on the table. “Can we . . . ?”

“Yes,” Neal said. “Just let me thank Antoine.” He stood up and went into the back. Sara took several deep breaths, trying to get her emotions under control. She hadn’t thought seeing Neal would be like this. A fun, light-hearted visit to celebrate him getting the anklet off was all she’d really intended. But then, she supposed Neal had always had a way of taking things a step or two too far - of making it all too real. 

Dusk was falling as they emerged from the restaurant. “Where are you staying?” Neal asked her. 

“The Marriot on the Champs-Élysées.” It was large and a bit impersonal, but Sterling-Bosch had a corporate partnership with them. It had seemed easiest. “You?”

Neal shook his head. “Nowhere, at the moment. I got in this morning and stashed my bag at the train station. But I can get it later.”

By mutual, unspoken agreement, they went back to her hotel. “Not bad, Repo,” Neal said, when she keyed open her room on the top floor. He went to stand in front of the window, staring out at the Paris night.

“I’m going to freshen up,” she said, and stepped into the bathroom with her overnight bag. She’d brought a negligee for the occasion, something fun and red, and she thought about putting it on. But in the end she didn’t. Instead she stripped down to her matching black lace panties and bra, with a silk robe that Neal had always said made her look like royalty, and added a surprise from the bottom of her bag: a tie, one of Neal’s own, a souvenir of sorts that she’d pilfered from his apartment that last morning, looped around her neck and loosely knotted.

When she emerged, he was lounging on the bed, feet bare and shirt open at the throat, but otherwise still dressed. He looked up at her and his mouth fell open a little. She felt a little thrill of satisfaction go through her at his expression. She leaned against the threshold. 

He sat up. “I’d wondered where that tie had gone.”

Sara let it run through her fingers. The silk barely made a whisper. “I stole it.”

He smiled. “So I see.”

“Maybe you should come steal it back,” she suggested. 

She thought about making him chase her a little, but when he stood up, his eyes were so intent on her that she almost couldn’t move. His kissed her, fingers hooking into the loose knot at the base of her throat, and she was glad that she had the wall at her back, because she was suddenly a little weak-kneed.

Not that she would have admitted that. 

Sex had always been her and Neal’s comfort zone. Neither of them was shy about asking for what they wanted, and they’d had good chemistry from the beginning. But it was more than that, Sara knew. Sex was where she trusted him the most. Neal was a con man, and he could lie perfectly well with his body when it suited him, but not here, she chose to believe, not like this. The moment when he came undone inside of her, when he whispered her name like a prayer, eyes locked onto hers - that was real. 

She didn’t know what he saw on her own face in that moment, but she thought it probably gave away too much. She kissed him until she could get her expression under control, and then, as soon as possible, rolled onto her side so that she was facing away from him. He fitted his body to hers, their legs entangled, his arm wrapped around her torso and holding her hand. Too late, she realized they were facing the window; the curtains were open, revealing a spectacular view of the Seine and the city lit up for the evening, and their faces were reflected in it. 

Neither of them spoke for a long time. “Sara,” Neal finally murmured, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, but her voice cracked, giving her away. He didn’t say anything. She swallowed, then closed her eyes, so that she wouldn’t have to watch him watching her. “I miss New York,” she confessed. “And I miss _you._ ”

“That’s okay,” he said, tightening his arms around her. “I missed you, too.”

She shook her head. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to miss you - or New York. That’s not who I am. But I did, and now I don’t - I don’t know what to do.”

Neal’s lips ghosted against the back of her neck. “There is an obvious solution here, Repo.”

She sighed. “My job is in London.”

“There are jobs in New York,” he replied. “Lots of them, even.” 

She shook her head. “Not like mine, not at Sterling-Bosch.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Neal asked, “Why does it have to be at Sterling-Bosch?”

Sara opened her eyes. Behind her, Neal shifted, pushing himself up on one arm, and she rolled over to look at him. “I . . .” she said, and then stopped, unsure of how to go on.

Neal looked at her, his blue eyes serious. “If you want to stay in London,” he said, “then you should do that. I can’t just up and leave, but we’ll work something out, if that’s what we both want. New York to London isn’t as bad as it could be.” She nodded. “But if you don’t want to stay in London - Sara, there’s no two-mile radius holding you there.”

Sara didn’t know what to say to that, and so she said nothing for nearly a minute. Neal lay down beside her, leg hooked over hers, and let her think. “Damn you, Caffrey,” she said at last. “You show up and just turn everything upside down.”

“Hey, I’ll point out that you invited me,” he replied. “Which might indicate that maybe you _wanted_ everything turned upside down.”

He had a point, Sara was forced to concede. “Maybe I did.” She lifted a hand, threading her fingers into Neal’s thick, dark hair. “How long do you have?” she asked.

“I told Peter I’d be back in two weeks,” Neal said, looking bemused. “I actually bought a round-trip ticket, too. Do you know how few round-trip tickets I’ve bought in my life?”

Sara smiled. “Would you come to London with me, then?” she asked. “I don’t know what I’m going to decide,” she added, hastily. He nodded. “But I think . . . I’d like to think it over.” 

Neal smiled and kissed her again, trailing kisses down her jawline to her neck until she shivered. “I’d be delighted,” he murmured, against her skin. 

***

Sara had not jumped off that many metaphorical cliffs in her life. For all that she enjoyed a bit of danger, part of her strategy for avoiding regret had always been that when it came to the big things, she played it relatively safe. But it was different, she found, when she had a hand to hold as she jumped. Especially when that hand belonged to Neal Caffrey, cliff-jumper extraordinaire. 

At the end of two weeks in London with Neal, Sara found that avoiding regret had suddenly taken on a whole new meaning. Life was too short, she found herself thinking, to spend on different sides of an ocean - even if that did mean looking for a new job. She thought her grandmother might be proud of her for finally having figured that out.

“Champagne?” the flight attendant asked, holding out a tray with flutes on it. 

“Thank you,” Sara said, passing one to Neal and keeping the other for herself. 

“What shall we toast to?” Neal asked, as the flight attendant moved on to the people behind them. 

Sara paused, thinking about the life she was leaving behind in London, the one that waited for her in New York. She had two interviews lined up already, but really, she had no idea what that life might look like yet. All she knew was that it would have Neal in it; it was shocking just how much easier that seemed to make everything else. She’d never felt like this before in her life, but she thought she could get used to it. 

“To round-trips,” she said at last. “And to coming home.”

“To round-trips and coming home,” Neal echoed, and clinked his glass against hers. 

_Fin._


End file.
